The Book of Fate

8

O’Shea carried two passports. Both of them legal. Both with the same name and address. One was blue, like any other U.S. citizen’s. The other was red… and far more powerful. For diplomats only. Fingering the embossed letters of the passports in his breast pocket, he could tell the red was on top. With a flick of his wrist, he could easily pull it out. And once the airport agents saw it, he’d no longer be stuck in the customs line that swerved through the back corridors of Miami International Airport. After the nine-and-a-half-hour flight from Paris to Florida, he’d walk right to the front. With a flick of his wrist, he’d be gone.

Of course, he’d also leave a trail of paperwork that tracked red passports everywhere. And as his FBI training taught him, all trails were eventually followed. Still, in most cases, that trail would be manageable. But in this one — between Boyle and The Three… and all they’d done — nothing was worth the risk. Not with so much at stake.

“Next!” a Latino customs clerk called out, waving O’Shea up to the small bulletproof booth.

O’Shea readjusted the U.S. Open baseball cap that he wore to blend in. His sandy-blond hair still peeked out, curling up under the edges. “How’s everything going?” he asked, knowing the small talk would keep the clerk from making eye contact.

“Fine,” the clerk responded, his head down.

Pulling out his blue passport, O’Shea handed it to the clerk.

For no reason, the clerk looked up. O’Shea had a smile waiting for him, just to keep things calm. As usual, the clerk immediately grinned back. “Coming back from work?” he asked.

“Lucky me, no. Vacation.”

Nodding to himself, the clerk studied O’Shea’s passport. Even tilted it slightly to inspect the new holograms that they recently added to crack down on forgeries.

O’Shea readjusted his U.S. Open cap. If he’d pulled the red passport, he wouldn’t be waiting here.

“Have a great one,” the clerk said, stamping O’Shea’s passport and handing it back. “And welcome home.”

“Thanks,” O’Shea replied, tucking the passport back into his breast pocket. Right next to his FBI badge and ID.

Within a minute, O’Shea cut past the baggage carousels and headed for the signs marked Nothing to Declare/Exit. As his foot hit the sensor mat, two frosted-glass doors slid open, revealing a mob of family and friends pressed against short metal barriers, waiting for their loved ones despite the early hour. Two little girls jumped, then sagged, when they realized O’Shea wasn’t their dad. He didn’t notice. He was too busy dialing a number on his cell phone. It rang three times before his partner answered.

“Welcome, welcome,” Micah said, finally picking up. From the soft humming in the background, it sounded like he was in a car.

“Tell me you’re in Palm Beach,” O’Shea replied.

“Got here last night. It’s nice down here. Fancy. Y’know they got tiny water fountains on the sidewalks just for spoiled little dogs?”

“What about Wes?”

“Three cars in front of me,” Micah said as the humming continued. “Him and his roommate just crossed the bridge a minute ago.”

“I assume he hasn’t seen you yet?”

“You said to wait.”

“Exactly,” O’Shea replied, stepping outside the airport and spotting his name on a handwritten sign. The private driver nodded hello and tried to grab O’Shea’s small black piece of luggage. O’Shea waved him off and headed for the car, never taking the phone from his ear.

“He’s dropping the roommate off right now,” Micah added. “Looks like Wes is headed into work.”

“Just stay with him,” O’Shea replied. “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”